Did You Ever Plan On Telling Me?
by Leaving-My-Mark
Summary: A short fic in which Dean discovers Sam's college applications and isn't very pleased with his discovery. Based off of a tumblr gif set. Reviews are appreciated!


**A/N: **This is a brief first attempt at a Supernatural fanfic. Based off of a gif set I saw on tumblr.

Enjoy! Or not. But leave a review anyway!

**Disclaimer:** Characters aren't mine! Supernatural belongs to the CW and Eric Kripke.

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He comes home late from school, having been busy with the school show, to find Dean sitting on the sofa, back facing him, shoulders hunched, and head hung low. Sam knows it's not a good sign, and warily steps into the hotel room. He quietly sets his bag down on the floor by the door and begins to approach his brother when Dean suddenly speaks up.

Sam still can't see his brother's face, but from where he's standing he can see his brother put his head in his hands and rub his eyes. "Did you ever even plan on telling me, Sam?"

Sam's heart sank and his whole body stiffened. Oh no. Oh God no, please let Dean not be talking about what Sam thinks he's talking about.

"What do you mean?" he asks quietly, and without turning to look at him, Dean simply holds up a stack of papers that he instantly recognizes. The realization hits him fast and when it does, the pit in his stomach widens into a giant, gaping hole of guilt.

"The applications, Sam," Dean answers, a flicker of anger rising in his voice. But that he can handle. He's handled plenty of it from his father and even a bit in the past from Dean.

It's the hint of fear that slips into his older brother's words and which fails to go unnoticed by Sam that causes him to hang his head in all-consuming shame. Despite the close bond he had shared, as he'd been filling out form after forming and essay after essay he never even really considered the fact that not only was he leaving his crappy life of motel after motel and a sergeant of a father (and not much of a father at all), but he was also leaving Dean.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I didn't mean for you to find out like this." Actually, he'd never planned for his brother to find out at all if he could help it. He figured if he told him, Dean would never let him leave. So much for that plan. "Please don't hate me," he pleads.

Finally, Dean turns his head and that twinge of guilt once again soars to new levels when he sees the redness in his eyes. "I could never hate you, Sammy. But I do have to wonder what makes you think you have the right to walk out and abandon your own family. Because I know what you were thinking when you filled these things out: you were thinking of packing your things, leaving without a word, and never looking back. You knew Dad and I wouldn't like it so you thought you'd try to slip behind our backs instead."

"Dean, it's nothing like that—" Sam tries to say, but an increasingly livid Dean gets up from his seat and takes a few steps toward him and cuts him off.

"No, that's exactly what it is. I know you, Sam. Don't lie to me."

Sam knows better than to argue and instead silently admits defeat as he bows his head. "I just want to get away from all of this. The hunt for revenge, the constant drilling and training, the moving…the fact that our father is less of a father and more of a revenge crazed drill sergeant! I feel like I'm in a boot camp, not a family and I can't take it anymore, Dean. I need to get away."

When his brother doesn't immediately reply, Sam slowly raises his head. He instantly regrets it; he regrets every syllable that just came out of his mouth, in fact, when he sees the look in his brother's eyes. Pain, sadness, betrayal…

"I'm sorry, Dean, I shouldn't have said that!" he sputters, but Dean simply shakes his head. And after what comes out of his mouth next, Sam can only wish that his brother had shouted at him at the top of his lungs; that he had maybe flailed his arms or gotten up into his face as his own turned a violent shade of red and his bright emerald eyes turned wild and feral like the think woods of the Amazon.

Really any emotion at all would've been preferred over the cold, detached voice Dean used next.

"No. No, it's okay. I get it, Sammy, I do. And you know what? Go ahead. Go ahead and leave to Stanford or Berkeley or Princeton—whatever Ivy League school it ends up being—if that's how you feel."

"Fine," Sam hollowly replies. Dean holds out the stack of applications and he quietly takes them as he walks past him. "I guess I will."


End file.
